


The Best Regova Eggs in Cardassia City

by NB_Cecil



Series: Doctors and Lizards [18]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Affection, Brief Reference To Past Torture (No Details), Cardassian Culture, Cardassian Food, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Elim Garak/Kelas Parmak, Established Relationship, Fluff, Garak is a good boyfriend, Intersex!Kelas Parmak, Julian Bashir Gets a Mention, M/M, Mild Cardassian Flirting, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, taking care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Some wholesome domestic fluff with food, literature, and Elim taking care of Kelas.





	The Best Regova Eggs in Cardassia City

Kelas spoke often of his mother’s _regova_ eggs. On cold nights when he and Elim huddled by the little stove in Kelas’ bedroom-cum-kitchen-cum-living-room, sharing a bland and meagre Federation food aid ration pack, he liked to reminisce on a time when hunger wasn’t a constant presence gnawing at his belly. She cooked _regova_ eggs every Eighth Day morning while his father made _tojal_ and flat cakes of _kismet_ flour bread. Sometimes, Kelas would be allowed to kneed the dough on days when they weren’t in a hurry to attend to chores and were truly taking their day off from work and school as a day of rest. Kelas wasn’t sure if reminiscing on delicious food from his childhood helped take their minds off their current situation or worsened it, but he could never resist smiling as he described his favourite childhood breakfast: the soft outer shell cooked to a golden, crunchy crisp, the way the bread soaked up the hot, runny yolk, the just-right balance of herbs and seasoning, and the sour contrast of the _tojal_ balancing the richness of the eggs. 

Things are not as bad now as they were in those first few desperate years after the Dominion’s assault on Cardassia. Food, while still not plentiful, is more varied and usually available in quantities sufficient to keep hunger at bay. The power supply is on more than it’s off, and industrial replicators in Munda’ar are churning out solar heaters and cooking appliances for delivery to homes across the continent. Cardassia has begun to look beyond its population’s immediate need for survival toward the longer-term production of food and resources, and Elim—an enthusiastic advocate of the policy—has become one of the first beneficiaries of the new Urban Food Sustainability Project, taking delivery of seven large, scaled birds with partially-feathered flightless wings, a flat-pack wooden hutch, and several rolls of wire mesh fencing.

Six weeks on Elim’s _regova_ lay their first clutch of soft, white eggs and he invites Kelas over to demonstrate his mother’s famous recipe. 

 

Elim checks a scrap of paper with its list of herbs written in Kelas’ spindly hand, ticking each one off with the stub of a pencil as he lays them out on the kitchen counter. He was able to harvest most from his garden, but there were two which required a trip to Torr to scour the market stalls. He had been successful with one, but the other had proven elusive. Kelas will have to make do without. He stands on tiptoes to reach the high shelf above the stove situated in the corner of his now-extended shed and takes down a bowl containing _kismet_ dough. He turns it out onto the work surface and shapes it into four discs. The kettle whistles and he turns from his work to pour hot water into the waiting teapot, the aroma of redleaf permeating the air. He is slicing vegetables for the _tojal_ when he hears Kelas’ footsteps crunching in the gravel around the monuments. 

“Come in, dear.” He calls as Kelas approaches the half-open door to his shed.

“What a delightful smell! Fresh herbs and fresh bread.” Kelas greets him, dropping his medkit onto the sofa before pulling Elim into an embrace and kissing his cheek. 

Elim leans into the hug but holds his flour-covered hands up and out to the sides to avoid dirtying Kelas’ cardigan.

“A pleasure to see you, dear, as always.” Elim says. “Some tea?”

“Lovely.” Kelas breaks off the embrace, pushes his sleeves up and turns to examine the herbs on the counter.

“No _zi’ith_ , I’m afraid.” Elim says apologetically as he pours the tea.

“Never mind. These will do nicely.”

Kelas selects a knife from the drawer and begins chopping herbs.

They chat as they prepare dinner. Elim gently ribbing Kelas for insisting on a breakfast menu in the evening, Kelas insisting the momentous occasion of the first eggs from the new _regova_ couldn’t possibly wait until they both had a morning free to prepare and enjoy them. Elim steals glances at Kelas while the other man is engrossed in his task, noticing the dark patches on his neckridges and the way he leans more heavily on his stick or the countertop than usual. 

“Busy week?” Elim asks.

“You could say that.” Kelas sighs. “I was hoping my workload might ease up a bit now the new hospital buildings are open, but my patients come to me because they’re scared of official buildings and the State. I’ve had four late-night emergency call-outs this week, _and_ I’m adjusting to some physical changes which make sleep rather difficult even when I do get an undisturbed night.”

“Physical changes?” Elim asks, slipping his free arm around Kelas’ waist to pull him close as he stirs the _tojal_.

“Mmm, my HRT is running low so I halved the dose to make it last. I’ve put in a request for more, but it’s not a priority medication so it’ll be eight weeks.” Kelas leans his head against Elim’s shoulder. “Everything aches and I’m tired all the time, but I can’t sleep properly because my body temperature’s up-and-down.” 

Elim turns his face to nuzzle the top of Kelas’ head.

“Sounds tough.”

“Oh, listen to me moaning,” Kelas pulls away and stirs the eggs vigorously to hide his embarrassment, “In the labour camp I couldn’t get HRT at all. This isn’t so bad, and eight weeks shouldn’t have much effect on my bone density.”

Elim turns to the window so Kelas doesn’t see the look of shame on his face. Kelas’ bone density is already on the low side, making him prone to fractures, and the broken leg he sustained in the labour camp wasn’t set properly, resulting in a permanent limp and chronic pain.

 

Elim closes his eyes and smiles round the first bite of the eggs. He gesticulates with his fork at his plate after he swallows.

“This is perfect, dear. The best _regova_ eggs in Cardassia City.”

“I told you my mother’s recipe was the best, _suthoss_.”

“And you’ve convinced me. Did you finish _The Light and the Shadow_?” Elim asks.

“Yes, last night when I couldn’t sleep.” Kelas yawns.

“Excellent. I’ve been looking forward to discussing it.” Elim grins. “And then perhaps a game of _kotra_?”

“Sounds lovely.” Kelas says, tearing off a chunk of bread. “This is really very good,” He waves the bread, stifling another yawn, “You’ll have to show me your recipe.” 

They finish their meal and Elim piles up the empty plates.

“Why don’t you go and lie down while I clear up, dear?” He suggests, mindful of Kelas’ increasingly frequent yawning.

“Would you mind?” 

“Of course not. You know where the bedroom is. Have a nap and I’ll bring some tea when I’m finished here, ok?”

“Mmm, thank you.” 

Kelas rises from the table, collects his stick and gives Elim’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze on his way to the bedroom.

 

Thirty minutes later Elim shoulders the bedroom door open, balancing a full teapot and cups on a tray. He smiles to himself as he takes in Kelas’ deep, regular breathing and his body curled under the duvet in the rays of sunset seeping through the window. 

“You are getting some sleep after all.” He murmurs, setting the tray down. Kelas doesn’t stir.

He pours a cup for himself, selects a book of Terran poetry from the shelf, and settles into the wicker chair beside the bed. 

As the evening light fades Elim works his way through the pot of tea and the book of poems, occasionally reading passages he thinks Kelas may enjoy aloud in a low murmur. Kelas sleeps on, stirring occasionally and shifting position in the bed. When it becomes too dim to read, Elim turns on the lamp and rises to close the blinds. He collects a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets—a gift from his dear friend Doctor Bashir—from the shelf and settles back down in his chair. He flicks through until he finds a bittersweet love poem he knows Kelas would appreciate, and reads aloud in a low, lilting voice, translating from the archaic Standard into Cardassian as he goes.

_O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power_  
_Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;_  
_Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st_  
_Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;_  
_If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,_  
_As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,_  
_She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill_  
_May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill._  
_Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!_  
_She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:_  
_Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,_  
_And her quietus is to render thee._

Several sonnets later Elim replaces the books on their shelf and carefully extracts his pyjamas from under the pillow Kelas is lying on. He changes and folds his clothes, stacking them in a neat pile on the chair and goes to the adjoining bathroom to perform his ablations. 

Kelas mumbles in his sleep as Elim slips between the sheets. 

“Goodnight, dear.” Elim whispers, gathering him in his arms and smoothing his hair. Kelas mumbles again, incoherently.

 

Kelas cracks an eye open as the morning Cardassian sun hits his face with a reddish glow. 

“Good morning, dear.” Elim greats him, looping the blind cord around a hook in the wall. “Sleep well?”

“Very.” Kelas smiles sleepily and pushes himself up on the pillows. “Is that redleaf I smell?”

“It is.” Elim bustles to the nightstand and pours him a cup from the teapot there. He hands it over and sits on the edge of the bed.

Kelas takes a long draught of tea and regards Elim over the rim of the cup.

“ _Suthossem_ , I’m sorry about last night.”

“Why?”

Elim swings his legs up onto the bed and shuffles closer.

“You had a lovely evening planned and I slept through it.”

“It was what you needed dear. And we _did_ have a lovely evening: we cooked and ate an excellent _breakfast_ —“ Elim nudges Kelas playfully with his elbow. “—And while you slept I read some interesting poetry. I’d call that a success.”

“Ah, did you read the poetry aloud by any chance?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“That explains my weird dreams.” Kelas chuckles.

Elim loops an arm around Kelas’ shoulder and pulls him close, kissing his sleep-dishevelled hair.

“I have something for you.” Elim hops off the bed and goes to the chair to rummage in the pocket of his tunic. “I found it in the garden when I was picking the herbs yesterday.”

He climbs back on the bed and holds up a chunk of glass worn smooth by soil and dust storms, its spiral ridges catching the glow from the window.

“From a _kanar_ bottle.” Kelas observes, taking the glass and rubbing the distinctive twisting ridges between his fingers. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Elim places a gentle hand on the back of Kelas’ head and brings their foreheads together. 

“I love you, dear.”

“I love you too, _suthoss_.”

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon about the _regova_ eggs recipe is that Parmak’s mum just chucked in whatever herbs she had to hand and one day 12-year-old Kelas was like “I’m going to science this!” and followed her round the kitchen writing down exact quantities of everything and detailed instructions for how to chop them all up and that’s how he always makes it now.


End file.
